


Once and Again

by Revenant



Series: Once and Again [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blood and Violence, Canonical Character Death, Deception, Developing Relationship, Drama, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Intrigue, M/M, Magic, Magic Revealed, Past Lives, Reincarnation, Romance, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 10:09:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenant/pseuds/Revenant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin, on his seventeenth reincarnation, finds himself employed at MI6 as Quartermaster struggling to keep his magic secret from his new boss whilst doing all he can to protect an obnoxious, infuriating, impossible blond, and everything is so very much like the first time around except for all the ways it is <i>massively</i> different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once and Again

The telephone rings three times at three o'clock in the morning and it's a relief. Bond gropes for it in the dim light cast by the lamp, the only one he had bothered to turn on after the sun had set. He tries not to sound grateful for the disruption. "Hello?"

"007," Q says over the line, his voice as placid as still waters. "I thought you should be notified as soon as possible: M has scheduled your evaluation for today. He'll want you in by nine at the latest."

"M," Bond echoes, drawing out the single letter. "Isn't this something Eve should be telling me? Or has she already transferred back into the field?"

There's a short pause before Q says, "She's not. Transferring back that is, but that's something she should tell you herself. You'll get a call at a more reasonable hour, naturally, but as that will undoubtedly be short notice I thought it would be prudent to break protocol."

Bond smiles wryly. "You're getting very good at that."

"Time to put the alcohol away, 007. What is it tonight, vodka?"

"Scotch."

Q gives a distracted hum, like he's only half-listening. "With soda, I hope." 

At the beginning of the night there had been soda but the scotch had long outlasted it. Bond looks at the glass in his hand, dark amber liquid swirling and glinting in the dim lamplight. He raises it to his lips and finishes it off in one gulp. "Of course."

Q does not sound at all convinced. "Sober up, 007. There's only so much M can be expected to ignore."

" _Mallory_ ," Bond corrects sharply.

"It's 'M' now. Practice it in the mirror a few times before you come in or you'll never get past the psychiatrists." There's a faint click and then the sound of a dial tone. 

Bond sighs. Damnable quartermaster. The last one never gave him this much trouble.

…………………………………………………………

Tanner calls it war footing but Bond can’t help a bitter part of himself that considers it cowardice. While the bulk of MI6 has returned to roost in Vauxhall Cross, Mallory has elected to keep his office off-site. It's a no-expense spared place in the heart of London befitting the political animal that Mallory is, regardless of what Moneypenny says about the man's military career. Bond can appreciate the luxury of the wood paneling and leather chairs but there's something discomfiting about the space, it unsettles him.

M had presided over MI6 as a captain over a ship, crowning the helm of the building she had run so smoothly. As director of the agency her involvement in the day-to-day was primarily oversight: the black scrawling signature at the bottom of documents issuing orders. There were inevitable meetings with oversight committees and Whitehall that she attended with the same enthusiasm as a soldier throwing themselves over a grenade. They were a necessary evil, she always insisted, and if someone had to be inconvenienced by the wheel of government better it was her than someone else who might have more pressing things to do with their time, "like save the world, one criminal organization at a time."

For all that she was impatient with the political component of her position she handled it with aplomb. The heads of every branch of MI6 were hand-selected by her and she had infinite faith in her choices. As a result, she rarely visited the various divisions without cause, trusting instead that everyone was doing their job competently and efficiently. Though she had an uncanny instinct when it came to knowing the precise moment when her presence might be beneficial, when a directed would be better delivered in person.

This illusion of independence had gone a long way with her employees, especially her agents. Especially Bond. Her trust in his capabilities allowed him to function on a looser leash that, more often than not, had barely existed at all. Maybe that same freedom Bond had always prized was what enabled Silva to do what he had, but the fact remained that no governing strategy was without it's faults and weaknesses. M had been very good at her job.

Bond isn't very good with change, he's self-aware enough to have noticed this. It's something he keeps at the front of his mind whenever he thinks about Mallory as head of MI6. It's a transition, an adjustment period, that's all. The changes are grating because they're unfamiliar, foreign, but soon they will slot into place and it won't chafe as it does now.

The office, for instance. Perhaps it is unfair to consider it cowardice, or a symptom of the politician that Mallory tries to deny he is at heart. Perhaps it is simply a matter of convenience. It's situated almost equidistant between Vauxhall and the new setup of Q-Branch, and there are the meetings with Whitehall to consider, which are certainly less of a commute from this location. M had always said she spent more time with bureaucrats than agents, something she'd always fought to re-balance. 

Having the head of SIS so far from the divisions he's overseeing demonstrates a great deal of faith in the heads of each division. Mallory much trust that everyone can get on with it without needing him to peer over their shoulders. 

Or it's an indication of the man's priorities: the title of Director of MI6 simply a stepping-stone in what the man hopes will become a long and illustrious political career. It's too early to tell, Bond supposes.

At eight in the morning Eve telephones to inform Bond of what Q has already passed on. "Nine o'clock," she says in a tone that brooks no argument. 

Sober as he is, freshly washed and with enough coffee in him to be reasonably functional he can't help but feel desperately grateful to his quartermaster, but no one else is spared from his generally poor disposition. In Bond's opinion these little hoops are a waste of everyone's time; psychological tests have no practical use whatsoever. Any double-oh capable of surviving in the field is capable of faking their way through these things. Bond's blatant and persistent failing of them is something he views as a courtesy. Something M had always appreciated, on some level at least.

Moneypenny fixes him with a skeptical look as he stalks through the doors to Mallory's outer-office. "You're looking cheerful." 

"Does he have a mission for me?"

She offers him a little half-smile. "Not today."

Pointedly, he raises his eyebrows at her. "Then there's no reason for me to be cheerful."

"Bond…"

"Can I go in?" He doesn't want to hear her condolences, or see the pity on her face.

Not that he feels particularly inclined to speak to Gareth Mallory. Whatever respect Bond had begun to feel toward the man had more or less vanished after M's death. 

Not that Mallory had comported himself improperly, but that particular politician's veneer he persistently maintains colors everything he says, even the things Bond suspects the man might genuinely mean. It all feels patently false.

Mallory.

M.

Bond wanted to chase the man away from her funeral. The man who had been 'transitioning' her out long before Silva had even made his intentions clear. What should have been a private affair filled with family and friends had been overrun by the stiff, straight-faced black-clad population of MI6 filling up the seats at the church and clogging the reception, blocking up the gravesite with their flat blank stares.

"007," Mallory says, opening the door to his office and simultaneously breaking Bond from his thoughts.

"Sir." Bond takes the chair that the other man offers, waiting while Mallory closes the door and takes his own seat behind the heavy wooden desk.

"I wanted to talk to you about getting back in the field," Mallory says, steepling his fingers together and smiling. "By the last report the doctors seemed reasonably confident that you were in good health."

Bond doesn't consider that his health was ever 'poor'. Recovering from the improperly healed bullet wound Moneypenny had so graciously given him was what his file credited for his temporary removal from active service but Bond knew Mallory was simply giving him time. 

After Skyfall, after M's death and the funeral...

He remembers Tanner standing with his head tipped forward, bowed low even if the man's expression had been as neutral and professional as ever. "It's a terrible shame," he'd said, the corners of his mouth twisted down as if he knew his words were wholly inadequate.

Bond had nodded. "It is."

"Bond," Tanner had called when he had tried to move away. "You mustn't blame yourself."

Across the sea of dark clad mourners Bond's eye had been drawn in that precise moment to a steady green-eyed stare. Q had met his gaze fearlessly and flatly, and no matter how Bond tried he couldn't read the look. "No," he had said. "You're right."

Tanner had clapped a hand on his upper arm and nodded, his wincing smile shrouded in loss. When Bond had turned back to where Q had been standing there was no sign of him.

"There will be tests, of course," Mallory is saying, recalling Bond to the moment. "Standard procedure, you know the drill."

"I'm familiar with it."

"Good man." Mallory stands, his right hand bridging the distance and Bond accepts it for an awkward shake. "They're waiting for you at Vauxhall. No reason to delay. You're needed, after all, 007."

"Thank-you, sir." He can't help thinking that this exchange right here was the first test, the one that will ultimately count most: can he move on? Is he still to the job? The answer would have been obvious to M, but Bond supposes that it's unfair to hold that against Mallory. 

They are just getting to know each other, after all.

…………………………………………………………

He hears the soft clicking of her high-heels, just slightly higher in pitch than the constant clattering of Q-Division as they work at their computers. "Do you have a moment, Q?"

"Not a good time, Moneypenny." He tries to look terribly engrossed but the truth is, he's tinkering with a piece of outdated tech he found in storage. He can't decide what exactly it was supposed to do.

"I've checked your schedule, you're clear for another hour. That's plenty of time."

"I'm doing meticulous work." He pauses long enough to shoot a glare at her. "This could explode."

"Could it really, though?" She has him there because he's standing at the table in the middle of the control room, which is just about the last place he'd be if the gadget in his hand had any potential for destruction. "Come on, darling. It'll just be a moment. Your office?" She doesn't wait for him, just takes off in the direction of his little corner of Q-Branch.

When she gets to the door, however, her power of persuasion entirely fails. She can't flash a saucy smile at his security system and gain entry, which Q finds satisfying somehow, even if he goes ahead and opens the door for her anyhow.

"Lovely," Eve sighs as she settles into one of his reclining chairs and slips her high heels off her feet, flexing her toes as he enters the code to turn the windows in his office opaque. "God, you have no idea how good it feels to kick those things off."

He spares a glance at the yellow suede pumps she's wearing. "I can imagine. Did you come all this way just to stretch your feet, Moneypenny?"

"Of course I didn't."

"I thought not. Especially as you're in the habit of taking them off when you're at your own desk."

Smiling, she leans forward. "How do you know that?"

"I noticed. Just like I notice you spin in your chair when you're bored."

"So do you," she challenges, jerking her head in the direction of his desk. 

Q fixes her with a suspicious look. "You can't expect me to believe that you have this office under surveillance."

"No," she laughs. "I've just seen you when you're bored. I know how you get. But I suppose you _do_ want me to believe that my office is under surveillance."

"If it were, I could hardly be authorized to tell you. Could I?"

"And what about Mallory? Does your clearance supersede his?" 

He rolls his eyes at her. "Enough conspiracy theories, Moneypenny. I'm head of Q-Division, and I'm the quartermaster. I hardly come anywhere close to Mallory's clearance."

"M," she corrects. 

"Of course. M."

Her mouth twists unhappily and she shakes her head, collapsing back in the chair. "You've been strange lately, that's all. Your friends are worried about you."

"What friends?"

"Me, for one." She doesn't back down, simply meets his neutral gaze with her own stubborn one. "I know things have been chaotic lately what with the transition, but you need to go home. Get some rest, come back in after you've had a break."

He shakes his head as he reaches for his mug of tea, only to realize he's left it out in the control room. Q spares a longing glance in the direction of the Control Room and thinks that, by the time he returns to his mug the tea will have gone cold. When he looks back at her Moneypenny is giving him an all-too knowing look, smirking at him. Q ignores it. "This isn’t the time for a holiday."

"Don't be in an idiot. I'm not saying you take off to Maui or wherever. I'm just suggesting you go home, sleep in your own bed for a change. Where do you even sleep when you're here?"

"The chair," he admits reluctantly. "That one." She follows his gesture, glancing down at the recliner on which she is perched and rolls her eyes. That particular mix of condescension and exasperation never fails to ruffle his feathers. "It's comfortable," he says, trying and failing not to sound defensive.

"I'm sending you home."

Q sniffs and raises his eyebrows at her. "Go on and try. You haven't the authority."

"No, but I've the connections."

"What, _M_?"

"Please," she scoffs. "I hardly need to bother the director of SIS with the fact that the quartermaster hasn’t slept in… how long's it been now?"

"Three hours," he tells her blandly.

"We're not arguing about this. I'm worried about you and since I'm in a position to do something about it, I'm seeing to it that something gets done."

"002 has a mission…"

"And after that, go home. Or I'll set the dogs on you."

He watches as she pops the recliner upright and slips back into her heels. "They would have to be some impressive dogs," he mutters sullenly.

"I mean it," she warns him, pausing at the door to his office.

"I outrank you, Moneypenny."

"Of course you do, darling." 

It's no good explaining that it's the question of security that has been keeping him up lately. Between overseeing missions and compiling mission kits for the field agents Q has been scrutinizing every aspect of MI6's security systems as well as its defense. Since he knows that Eve would be unmoved by hearing that this is partly due to an order from Mallory he doesn't bother to explain himself. She probably knows anyway.

He spares a moment to brood darkly behind his desk, and then abandons his office in favor of returning to the control room and the table he has claimed as his workstation as he waits for 002 to radio-in. 

His mug is sitting just where he left it, the dark 'Q' facing toward him. Picking it up, Q takes a tentative sip and winces. Just as he suspected, it's gone cold.

"The kettle's just boiled," Prinn offers helpfully from the table to his left. "Fresh pot of earl grey is just steeping now."

"Mm," Q says and sets his mug aside, returning to the gadget he has disassembled in the control room. "When 002 radios I want to be notified immediately."

"Of course," she says, but Q has already lost track, engrossed in the gadget which he has only now decided is in fact a rather ingenious little bugging mechanism that, with the right modifications and a much smaller casing, might function perfectly for 004's mission, provided Q can make all of the necessary adjustments in time.

__________________________________________

"Nine minutes," Eve says when Bond emerges from the last test of the afternoon. "I think that's the longest you've ever gone with a psychiatrist."

"Psychiatrists are a waste of time. No one of sound mind elects to work for a place like MI6."

Her left eyebrow hitches up. "I've been told their baseline is different for field operatives than for civilians. They simply want to make certain you're not becoming an egomaniacal bloodthirsty liability."

"If they were capable of accurately assessing that then Silva wouldn't have happened." He presses the button for the lift, waits a beat for it to arrive. "Excuse me."

"Bond." She follows him into the enclosed space, flashes him an unamused look when he offers her a suggestive smile and a slightly leering gaze, then draws herself up even taller. "I need a favor from you."

"I believe you're confused, Eve. You shot me. If anything, you're the one who owes me the favor."

"Well then, consider this an addition to the pile you're apparently accumulating."

He eyes her carefully. "You must be desperate."

Her dark eyebrows jerk upward and he flashes him a particularly unimpressed look. "Hardly. But I require a stubborn, single-minded and loyal individual and in that regard I'm told you're the best."

He returns her look, equally unimpressed. "Flattery." 

"Whatever works, James."

"I'm done for the day," he tells her. "I'm supposed to be going home, relaxing. Taking it easy."

"Or…" she purrs, flashing him that devilish grin.

He knows perfectly well that she's manipulating him, but he's bored. If he leaves now he'll be back in his hotel suite with nothing but the mini-bar for company. Surely whatever favor she has in mind is preferable to that. When he asks, "Or what?" her smile stretches, a wide crocodile grin that he can't help but find appealing.

__________________________________________

For all that every piece of it is newly designed and constructed, Q-Branch feels familiar to Bond in a way that no other part of MI6 does. He knows the moment he pulls his car into a spot in the underground parking that there will be seven security checkpoints to pass before he walks into Q's domain. Knows that he will find six black tables arranged in organized lines, with two workstations at each table and twelve chairs in total. There will be twelve agents from Q Division sitting under the white-painted bricked arches and at the center of the room will be Q himself, hunched over something or other at the center table in mission control.

Except once he's navigated his way through the subterranean labyrinth, Bond finds himself standing in mission control with no Q in sight, even if every other workstation is occupied.

"Can I help you, 007?" asks one of Q's minions. 

Bond vaguely recognizes the man but doesn't know his name. "Q?"

The man hesitates for a beat but his face remains neutral, his eyes holding Bond's directly, his body completely still. Bond knows field agents that are less composed. He endures the moment of scrutiny calmly, and is rewarded when the man gestures over his shoulder and says, "In his office."

In the far corner of Q Branch, raised slightly from the rest of the floor and partitioned by floor-to-ceiling glass, is Q's office. Through the clear windows Bond can see more white-painted brick, a dark colored desk and high-backed desk chair on which the quartermaster is sitting patently ignoring both his computer screen and the six flat screen televisions showing an aimlessly ricocheting ball of colored light passing between them. 

Since two of the four office walls are clear glass and Q seems thoroughly engrossed in whatever it is he's doing, Bond doesn't bother to knock. Instead, he pushes open the door and strides in. "What are you doing?"

"It's a prototype," Q answers without glancing up. 

"For what?" Bond asks, ignoring the flash of disappointment he feels at not having managed to startle the younger man.

"An improvement to the standard bug we use. It will collect and automatically send any sounds it can pick up, but can also pirate the wi-fi and give us full access to any electronic device that utilizes the system. It can be activated at a simple press of a button, which should mean less risk to the agent."

"Does it explode?"

"What?" Q does glance up then, his dark brows pinched together. "No."

"Then I'm not interested."

Rather than reply the quartermaster sighs heavily and gropes with one hand for his mug, raising it to his mouth and then blinking in confusion. Empty. After a brief pause, undoubtedly considering whether or not to fetch a refill, Q sets the mug aside and returns to his work. "Did you come here with a purpose, 007?"

"To thank you for the phone call. It was appreciated."

"Purely for selfish reasons, I assure you. I feel safer when you are out-of country, so you can satisfy your destructive impulses on the more deserving. I'd hate to see what you'd be like stuck in London for any real length of time."

"Then, my destructive impulses thank-you."

Olive green eyes peer up at him for a moment. "Was that all?"

Bond waits a beat, and then shrugs. "I have a mission."

Immediately he has the younger man's full attention. "Since when? I wasn't notified."

"As of thirteen minutes ago, courtesy of Moneypenny." Q continues to blink at him in confusion and Bond can't quell a smirk at the clearly exhausted quartermaster. "I'm to take you home."

Q mutters something that sounds a bit like, "Impressive dog, indeed", and then fixes Bond with a bland, semi-imperious look. "I'm perfectly capable of getting home myself, thank-you. Besides, I have to finish this. 004 has a mission in two days where this device will undoubtedly be relevant."

As Q returns his attention to his work, Bond collects the familiar brown parka from where it hangs from a valve attached to a painted pipe that runs along the left wall. "I'm afraid my orders were quite clear," he says, holding up the coat. "I'd hate to see what Eve would do to either of us if we disobeyed her."

Q glares first at Bond, and then at the coat. His expression shifts from irritation to consideration and he checks his watch. "You're not afraid of her, are you?" 

"Lets not forget that she shot me." She had also been very thorough in her briefing regarding this particular mission. Apparently Q hadn't left his division since the funeral, and Eve suspected he would put up quite a fuss should Bond attempt to drag him out. "You have my permission," she had said. "To literally haul him out of Q-Branch if necessary." Bond had come down expecting banter, to have to coax the stubborn quartermaster into his coat and then chivvy and prod the younger man into the car.

Instead, Q tidies his desk and stands up, slipping his arms through the sleeves of the parka Bond holds for him, and then patting the pockets absentmindedly as if completing a mental checklist. Snapping his fingers, Q turns back to his desk in order to rifle through the top drawer. "I didn't ask, how did the tests go?" 

"M can't afford _no_ t to put me back in the field."

Q pauses in his rummaging to narrow his eyes in Bond's direction. "M?"

"Regime changes take some getting used to."

"Is that what it is? A regime change?"

"I've just spent ten minutes facing down a psychiatrist, are you honestly going to have a go as well?"

Q doesn't roll his eyes or make any exaggerated motion, but Bond clearly understands that the quartermaster is exasperated. "That test is supposed to be forty-five minutes, 007. Ah," he pops up again with what looks like a Swiss Army knife, slipping it into his pocket and patting it once, double-checking for his keys and then nodding. 

It occurs to Bond, like a sudden shocking spill of cold water on a hot day, that as quartermaster Q asking about the tests isn't just making conversation: his clearance enables him to read Bond's files. All of them. Including any and all psychological tests. The realization stalls him; an uncomfortable sense of exposure closing on him even as he wonders any of it should matter. 

Bond is still standing in the center of the quartermaster's office when Q reaches the door. When he reaches the door Q pauses and turns around, staring blankly at Bond for a moment. "I didn't read your results."

Clearing his throat, Bond asks, "Forty-five minutes?"

Q shakes his head, the right corner of his mouth twitching upward in dark amusement as he turns around to face Bond directly. "Did it never occur to you that Q Branch might be subjected to the same battery of psychological evaluations as well? Regime changes are difficult for everyone."

The younger man's face is impossible to decipher. There are shadows beneath his eyes, but Eve had said that Q has been keeping appalling hours, the pallor of his skin might be lack of sleep or it might be something else. Bond hasn't been around MI6 lately and has no way of knowing whether there has in fact been a reason for Q to keep the hours he has been. Possibly Mallory has been increasing the number of agents in the field in order to reclaim the footing they've lost because of Silva. It suddenly occurs to Bond to wonder, how well had Q known M?

"I imagine you passed the tests," he says, slowly.

"Naturally."

"You're not grieving then?"

"Grieving?" Q echoes, blinking wide eyes. When Bond merely stares back the younger man's expression fades from surprise to mild exasperation. "If I were, I can hardly think of a reason I should hide it."

"Of the two of us, I was the field agent tasked with guarding her when she was shot and killed. It was my plan that had her out there in the first place."

"And I was the quartermaster who made an arrogant, completely asinine mistake and led Silva right into our networks. I might as well have opened his cell door myself." Q pushes his glasses up, and squares his shoulders as he continues, "I can't help but think how things would be different if…"

Bond laughs. "Is this what you told the psychiatrists?"

"Yes," Q snaps. "Because it's the truth. I recognize my mistakes and the part I played in M's death and I deeply regret them." His chin jerks upward slightly as he adds, "But I hardly knew her."

There's something, a flicker that crosses the younger man's face maybe, but Bond knows, "You're lying."

"Laugh at me all you'd like, 007, but I'm tired and I'd like to go home. You said you'd drive me. If the offer no longer stands then I'm quite happy to take the tube."

"Q…" 

"She recruited me," Q says quietly, the defiant rigidity leaking out of his posture. "It's not common knowledge. Tanner was there, and I suppose now Mallory has the clearance to read my file. I've told Eve and … and now I'm telling you."

Bond steps into Q's space, keeps his voice low because there's something about this that feels private, even if they're standing in the middle of Q's office with glass walls looking out to all of Q Division. "Why?"

"It seems like it might be something you'd understand. She brought me into MI6. She saw something in me and she trusted me and relied on me, until finally she promoted me and made me what I am today. Sound familiar?" he smiles. "We're both part of the old regime, Bond. Now we're sailing under new colors." Licking his lips, Q jerks his chin up and adds, "But I'm not mourning her."

Again Bond searches the younger man's face. "I couldn't tell that time."

"Tell what?"

"Whether or not you were telling the truth."

"I have no reason to do otherwise, 007. Now, are you taking me home, or shall I just kip at my desk."

Casting a dubious look at the cluttered desk and awkward looking chair, Bond can't quite keep the bafflement from his tone. "Christ, is that what you've been doing?"

"That chair over there reclines and is remarkably comfortable."

The indicated chair at least seems to be capable of reclining. Still, it's hardly an improvement. "I suppose next you'll tell me you've been living off of tea."

"And sugar," Q adds blandly. Bond hopes he's joking but suspects that he isn't. Shaking his head, the agent opens the door for the quartermaster to step through it.

__________________________________________

Q sits in the front seat of Bond's newly acquired Astin Martin and gives directions the same way he did when Bond was navigating the subway system: "It's north of Picadilly … no, _north,_ 007\. Don't turn there. Right up ahead … just here will do," he finishes, as Bond finds a spot to park along the side of the road.

The house is located roughly in the middle of the narrow little side road that is Chesterfield Street, a bright yellow-slate building sandwiched between two taller, wider, darker brick ones, opposite a wall of other dark brick buildings. It looks somewhat dwarfed, and also absurdly defiant in its individuality. 

Unlike the other homes on the street, Q's house has no balconies or window boxes. No adornment of any kind, except for a row of skinny, jutting iron spikes that serve as a somewhat menacing fence. There is no gate. He has no idea what sort of income the young quartermaster has, but they're in relatively expensive part of London, and Bond is acutely aware that he is following Q up to a house, not a flat. Approximately six whole floors of house, which seems like an awful lot of space.

"You live alone?" Bond finds himself wondering aloud.

Q raises a dark-chocolate eyebrow, glancing out the window of the car toward his house. "Yes." He lets that sit for a moment, and then clears his throat. "Thank-you for the lift. I'm grateful Moneypenny blackmailed you into it. I might have fallen asleep on the tube, which isn't especially pleasant."

"It wasn't blackmail."

"Either way." He hesitates, his hand on the door and seems to consider something for a minute. "Would you like to come in for some tea?"

Bond considers turning the offer down, he doesn't particularly want a cuppa, but he isn't particularly ready to return to his hotel, either, to say nothing of the fact that the quartermaster has him curious. Opening his door, Bond follows Q up to the square of swept slate that is the front step.

The other houses on this street have bright white doors, or red but Q's is a gleaming black. The knocker is an iron serpent twisted into an elaborate knot, swallowing its own tail. The detail of it is so fine that the snake seems to breathe. 

"Are you coming in?" Q asks, stepping through the door that Bond had even realized had been unlocked and opened for him. 

The front entrance has a high, smoothly arching ceiling and an elaborately black and white tiled floor. It isn't until that moment that Bond realizes he had expectations built-up in his head about the sort of space the quartermaster might call home. Not until he recognizes that this place isn't living up to a single one of them. 

Everywhere he looks he sees meticulously kept antiques, ornate wood furniture, heavy wallpaper patterns in unexpected and outdated colors, expensive rugs and artwork on the walls, rich fabrics on the chesterfield, and chairs better suited to furnishings in an a musty old tourist attraction of a castle than a young man's home. Skyfall itself, during Bond's youth when the place had been furnished and lived in, had been stocked with more modern ideals than this place.

"Bond?" Q comes back down the hall; pausing at Bond's side as he continues to stare into the first room he had happened to lay eyes on. "Is there something especially fascinating about my study?"

Bond frowns at the room. "This is your study?" 

"Yes, one of them." Dark brows scrunch together as Q scrutinizes first Bond, and then his own living space. "What does that matter?"

There is a fireplace surrounded by an ornately carved mantel. A dark leather chaise-lounge with two matching high back chairs all sitting on an expensive looking rug. A mahogany library table crammed with books with old-fashioned bindings, and more books inside a mahogany and glass cabinet. The wallpaper is a cluttered design that Bond can't make out, predominantly grey-blue and gold-brown colors. There is no sign of a computer or a laptop, no mp3 player or television. Nothing but the books and a fireplace, strange and eclectic works of art and a brass and marble floor lamp that Bond finds particularly off-putting. A tapestry hangs over the fireplace mantle, glorious reds and greens and gold, it depicts a woman seated in a grove of pear trees, surrounded by animals including a lion and a unicorn. 

"That was a gift." 

There's a curious light in the younger man's eyes as he looks at the tapestry and Bond realizes that the gift had been and still is very much appreciated. This realization, that Q is the sort of person who like receives tapestries as gifts, is baffling. "From who?"

"A friend." Q licks his lips steps out of the room. "He's dead now."

"I'm sorry." 

"No. It was…" Again Q licks his lips, and some of the tension that had been creeping into his lithe frame falls away. He shakes his head and offers a smile. "It was a long time ago. Another life. Anyway, you haven't made it ten steps into my home. I don't see what's so captivating about my study."

"Everything." Bond takes another glance at the room before following the younger man down the hallway. "I haven't even made it ten steps into your home and I've still not seen any sign of a computer or television or even a radio."

"Of course I've got a radio." Q sounds mildly indignant that Bond would think otherwise. "It's in the morning room."

While Q turns down the staircase Bond keeps walking in the direction that Q's careless wave had indicated. This room doesn't fulfill his expectations any more than the study had: another ornate fireplace, more heavy drapery and it all looks tasteful and coordinated but so disturbingly old-fashioned that he feels curiously misplaced in time. There's a Tiffany lamp set on a side-table, and beside it the radio: an antiquated wooden box that makes him blurt, "You must be joking."

"I'm trying to make you tea, 007. Why must you insist on making this so difficult?"

"That is not a radio," Bond says accusingly as he paces out into the hallway, pointing behind him in the direction of the offending item. Q peers up from midway down the stairs, his expression impassive. "It looks like something from the 1940's."

"1927, actually," Q corrects, patiently waiting on the stairs.

"You're head of Q-Branch."

"I'm aware of that, yes."

"Please tell me you don't also own a phonograph."

"In the drawing room. Bond, I don't see what the problem is."

"You've got a _phonograph_ , and books and an _antiquated_ radio…"

Q actually rolls his eyes. "007, you're being as ass. Of course I've got books, I _read_. I've got a phonograph because I have a record collection and over a particularly rainy weekend I decided to tinker with it to see if I could optimize the sound production and succeeded rather better than I expected. I've got a _highly modified antique_ radio because I enjoy the craftsmanship and elegance of old radios to the hideous things they design these days, but I also find it helps to have a place to dock my iPod – which is also highly modified, I'll have you know." 

He stops to collect himself and Bond can't help noticing that during this rant Q's complexion has turned somewhat pink. "Are you genuinely still concerned over my abilities as Quartermaster? I had the phonograph and the radio when I designed the Walther coded to your palm, which saved your life, thank-you very much. And which you proceeded to feed to a _komodo_."

"Will you never let that rest?"

Q sniffs primly. "Not ever. Now stop shouting at me from the top of my stairs and come down to my kitchen and drink some tea, dammit." Q's head abruptly disappears from over the railing and Bond stands there, staring. He catches sight of the younger man's dark trousers and shoes, and of his right arm as he winds the rest of the way down the staircase and vanishes into the basement.

Bond tries to pretend that he is not relieved to find the kitchen kitted out with gleaming stainless steel appliances and clean modern lines. "Your home is not what I expected," he says by way of apology as he settles at the kitchen island.

Q takes down two cups from his cupboard, setting them onto two matching saucers. Then he goes fishing in a drawer for teaspoons. "I suppose after seeing what I did with Q-Branch certain conclusions would seem sensible."

"I didn't know your generation still believed in books." 

Q's lips quirk slightly, his green eyes sparking. "We all have our mysteries."

Bond watches as Q finishes preparing the tea. He barely knows the younger man yet from startlingly early he had found himself trusting Q. Possibly from that moment in the National Gallery, certainly by the time he hatched his plan regarding Skyfall. It hadn't occurred to him until later, after M had fallen asleep in the car and he'd had some time to catch his breath: Q could have said no, could have reported him. 

All the younger man had said was: "I'm guessing this isn't strictly official."

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Q asks now, raising his eyebrows as he sips from his cup.

"There's something about you," Bond finds himself saying. "I can't quite put my finger on it."

Q sets his cup down, clearing his throat softly. "It’s cold down here. Are you cold?" There's a bit of a chill but Bond hadn't noticed it under the younger man had pointed it out. He opens his mouth to reply but Q is already striding out of the kitchen. "Just let me turn up the thermostat."

__________________________________________

Bond steps out onto the street, heading back to his car and Q feels quite suddenly as if the real world has once again opened its mouth and consumed him. He shuts the door, shuts his eyes and takes a moment to simply breathe.

Then he takes out his mobile phone and dials.

"Oh good," says the voice on the other end of the line in lieu of a proper greeting. "Are we breaking radio silence already? I was beginning to get bored."

"Bond's been tested for field readiness."

"And?"

Q rolls his eyes toward his ceiling and reminds himself that, at heart, he is a genuinely patient sort of person. Mostly. "I haven't had time to read the data. I've been unceremoniously booted from my own department. Something about keeping unhealthy hours – by the way, Moneypenny is a traitor."

"For sending you off to bed? If that is to be the standard by which we assess our allies …"

"I know ma'am," he says quickly. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're _tired_. Do try to make note of the difference. It will save us many unnecessary complications in the future."

He nods, even though she can't see him. "I suppose whatever the results of the tests turn out to be, you'll want him back in the field."

"If you can manage it," she answers smoothly. "We need someone we can rely on…" He must make a noise because a wry edge cuts into her tone, "I know what you think of him, but he's an excellent agent."

"I won't fault him for loyalty but he's not much when it comes to subtlety. He's arrogant and destructive. He'll blow everyone up before we have a chance to question them."

"Says the man who will be supplying him with the explosives."

"On _your_ order," he snips back, then hesitates. "Or …" Q sighs tiredly. "Anyway, I'll see what I can do."

"At the moment you and Bond are the only two people I trust. We have to be ready."

"Understood, Ma'am." Q cuts the connection. He can't remember the last time he came home for more than a quick change of clothes and to feed his cat. Suddenly the prospect of collapsing into bed is the more glorious thing in the world. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is greatly appreciated.


End file.
